


Queen and Country: 1

by mevennen



Series: Queen and Country [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:43:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21760342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevennen/pseuds/mevennen
Summary: I'm going to be writing this over the next couple of weeks. Perhaps best if you read 'Make It Look Like An Accident' first, if you haven't done so already.Mallory's freelancer will be recognised by some of you. I'll explain how that works at the end of the story.
Series: Queen and Country [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568317
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Queen and Country: 1

You stand at the long window, looking out onto the bare black branches illuminated in the streetlights that run along the edge of Hyde Park. It’s December now, not far from Christmas. The country goes to the polls tomorrow. You have asked the concierge where the nearest polling station is and he has told you that it is in a church hall, quite close to the park. 

He is too polite to ask if you are actually entitled to vote, but you are a British citizen and have been for some time now.

The man who has just been to see you is not too polite to ask although, because he is extremely British and born so, he asks obliquely. 

“I’m a little surprised.”

“You shouldn’t be.” You turn your back on him and he knows what it means and you can feel his thin smile even though you cannot see him reflected in the window. He knows what that means, too. It is a symbolic gesture, and you think he will appreciate it. “I do have some loyalties.”

“I understand you to be very loyal to your associates, if they reciprocate. Not necessarily to nations. But I suppose someone in your position might have felt the need for some – stability. After growing up in a warzone.”

“You’ve read my dossier, I expect.” You turn back to face him. You wonder if you ever met, a long time ago. It would be nice to think so. But one can’t expect a soldier to remember a random orphaned kid in a shelled-out city. “I do have a dossier, I hope? I’d be very embarrassed if I didn’t.”

“Well, I’d hate to disappoint you. You have a great big dossier, in fact. Rather an interesting read. Although light on local activities.”

“There haven’t been any ‘local activities.’”

“Quite. I can’t help wondering why.”

“I feel I am being rather remiss in my hostessly duties. Would you care for a cigarette, Lieutenant Colonel?”

There is a moment of hesitation. “Oh, go on then. I’m supposed to have given up.” An eyebrow arches. “Rather unusual, these days, if I may say so, to see a person of your age smoking. I thought Millennials were all health and safety.”

“I had a rather old fashioned upbringing. And I can’t stand vaping. It’s such a feeble word. Besides, one can’t live forever.” You offer him a Gauloise. “Sorry it’s French. Especially at the moment.”

“I’ll cope.” He takes a long, appreciative drag. “So, regarding this lack of local activity.”

“Sometimes the most unlikely people are secretly quite responsible.” You perch on the arm of a chair. He is carefully not staring at your legs. Well mannered, you think. He is the brother of a Duke, after all, although God knows how much that means these days. But you like the idea all the same. You are a big fan of Downton Abbey.

He says, “I see. Responsible enough, even at a relatively tender age, to consider retirement as a possibility? After all, this is a hostile environment, in terms of immigration.”

“Quite so. One wouldn’t want to be considered undesirable, you see. Perhaps that’s why I am prepared to hear what you have to say.”

A bland blue look. “Maybe I’d better just say it, then.”

And he does.

After he has gone, you go back to the window, slide the balcony doors open and step out into the damp chill. You watch him walking rapidly across Hyde Park, his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat. He looks somehow quintessentially British. 

You give a little nod. “I like him,” you decide. Trust is a big thing with you, perhaps the biggest thing of all. He could have made things very difficult for you and yet, he has given you his word that he will not. 

You wait until he is out of sight and then you go back inside, carefully shut the balcony doors, draw the long silk curtains and reach for your Smartphone. 

You think that it is time you phoned the pub. 

**Mallory’s Diary, December 20**, decoded**

An interesting young woman. Some lovely artwork in that flat, including a Paul Nash. I said, "I've got one of his in my office" and she gave a serene smile and said, "I know." Well, touché to you too.

Interesting to finally meet her, as well, although her name has crossed my desk on numerous occasions, over the years. Some discreet questioning of 007, when we first came up with this plan, reveals that he has indeed met her: this was in the files, although large sections of the narrative seem to be missing. How did he end up unconscious at the bottom of a crate in Tangiers harbor, for instance? When I asked him point blank, he muttered something about ‘unfortunate thing’ and clammed up. I could have pressed it, I suppose, as his boss, but I know that shifty look: he’d fucked up and couldn’t admit it, and that probably did mean a woman. 

Obviously, we do sometimes bring in freelancers although I’m not fond of doing so. Things get messy, fast. Especially if you use people who have historically been on the wrong side of the law. However, needs must. There's a reason why 'may you live in interesting times' is a Chinese curse. 

After my stroll across Hyde Park, I caught a cab to Blades and found my brother on his way out after an evening fencing session. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Roderick said, with an unflattering lack of enthusiasm. “I thought you might still be at work.”

“I was. Passing by on the way home." Which he knew not to be the case. "Fancy a drink?”

“Yes, why not?”

There were very few people in the bar and I chose a seat near the far side, away from the window, and sat down with my back to the room. You never know who might be able to lip read.

Roderick summoned the waiter and without asking what I wanted, ordered a couple of double Lagavulins. He has known me for over fifty years, after all. I said,

“It’s the election tomorrow.” 

“Oddly enough, I was aware of that, Gareth. Given that I have a seat in the House of Lords.”

“Not for much longer, if Neville Barrage by some monstrous fluke does get in.”

Roderick snorted. “Pigs might fly. I know he’s threatening to disband the Lords. Good luck with that. But Barrage might be preferable to some outcomes, mind you, even if he is somewhere to the right of Oswald Mosley.”

Our eyes met. The word _Balmoral_ hung unspoken between us, literally a castle in the air. 

“Have you been – approached – recently?” my brother asked.

“No. The matter has been left in my hands, however.”

“And your man? The one I smote with an umbrella? I trust he’s quite recovered?”

“I am assuming so. He’s out of the country.”

“Is he.” Roderick’s black eyes became opaque for a moment; I could almost see cogs going round.

“Not everyone is out of the country, however. Even some foreigners still remain in London. I expect some of them may even be voting tomorrow.”

Roderick looked puzzled. He was about, I think, to comment that this was surely obvious, but then he thought better of it. He nodded, and took a sip of his whisky.  
The conversation turned to the weather, and to Christmas. We did not stay long after that.

*

Next morning, Mallory made sure that he was at his local polling station as soon as it opened. He handed in his registration card, was ticked off a list, and sought fleeting refuge in a booth where he exercised his prerogative as a citizen of England. He was smiled at approvingly by the lady on the door for doing his public duty early, and made his way to the Tube.

On route, something caught his eye. Standing at the entrance to an alleyway, leaning against the wall, was a young woman. Her black hair was piled high on her head in a retro, Amy Winehouse style, and her dark gaze was elongated by a catseye flick of liner, rather smudged, as though she had slept in it. She wore a fake leopardskin jacket, tight jeans and high heeled boots. She took a drag of a foreign cigarette and winked in an offensively familiar manner. 

“Morning, love. Awwight? Had a fun night?”

“Fascinating, thank you.”

“Ooh, I like that car. Isn’t it nice? Don’t you think?”

Reflexively Mallory turned to look and glanced quickly back again, for there was no nice car. Unless she was a secret admirer of the 2005 version of the Nissan Micra, of course. The girl was no longer anywhere to be seen. Mallory stood still for a moment, torn between amusement and irritation at falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Then he unfurled his umbrella against the winter murk and made his way to the entrance of the Underground. 

…to be continued…


End file.
